Read Online The Night Remembers by Candace Schuler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Candace Schuler
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the final designs for next fall's collection, up to her ears in plans for an upcoming charity benefit, up to her ears in New York's slushy lionlike March weather, up to her ears period.
"Damn it, Elaine." She began chastising the young woman as soon as she hung up. "I can't be interrupted every ten minutes with a call that you could have handled perfectly well by yourself. What's the matter with you lat—" She stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing that every head in the room had snapped to attention at the sound of her voice.
There was a tiny millisecond of silence and nervous glances were exchanged as everyone reassured themselves they were not her intended target. A few wry, long-suffering smiles were traded. A few shoulders lifted in a "who knows?" sort of shrug. And then heads bent back over worktables, or lengths of fabric draped on long elegant bodies, and the hum of voices resumed as if nothing had happened. Except that Daphne realized she had nearly been shouting—again.
With a sigh, she propped both elbows on the drawing board and dropped her forehead into her cupped hands. "Damn," she swore softly.
She seemed to have been doing a lot of shouting in the past week. The volatile temper she had learned to control so well, losing it only when it would do her some good, seemed to be going off every twenty minutes. And it took embarrassingly little to light the fuse: models who were three minutes late for a fitting; the delivery boy from the deli downstairs bringing her tuna salad on white instead of whole wheat; Federal Express stopping by for a pickup five minutes later than they said they would; someone asking a simple question; the telephone. Especially the telephone. She kept hoping—and dreading—it was Adam.
It was all his fault, damn him, she thought savagely. Good manners, if nothing else, should have prompted him to call by now. It wasn't as if she was expecting declarations of love, or even an invitation to dinner the next time she was in town, but he could at least have called to make sure she had got back to New York all right. That would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. And even if he didn't want to talk to her, he could have written a polite little note saying that he had enjoyed seeing her again, couldn't he? He could have sent her flowers. Something. Anything. This deafening silence from the West Coast was making her feel like a one-night stand.
You didn't interrupt anything important.
A man could hardly get any clearer than that.
Oh, well, chalk one up to experience, she told herself. Blame it on human nature and the law of averages. Because, according to all the current experts, having a fling with one's ex-husband was almost boringly predictable. For some probably deep-seated masochistic reason, women seemed to do it all the time.
"Damn," she said again, more forcefully this time.
"Daphne?" Elaine's voice was hesitant. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I should have handled the Dragon Lady myself. I—"
"It's not your fault," Daphne said from behind her hands. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."
Elaine reached out, putting a tentative hand on Daphne's shoulder. "Hey, are you all right?"
Daphne sighed and lifted her head. "I'm fine," she said, a smile of apology on her lips. She reached up and patted the hand on her shoulder. "Just fine, really," she added, and then grimaced. "Except for the fact that I've been acting like a raging bitch, that is. I'm really sorry." She gave Elaine's hand a light, affectionate squeeze before she released it. "Forgive me?" she said, reaching for the violet drawing pencil as she spoke.
"Oh, don't worry about it. I understand completely." Elaine shook her head, setting the glossy brown hair to bobbing around her chin. "Men."
Daphne smiled, amused in spite of herself. Elaine thought men, individually or as a group, were the root of every woman's problems. "What makes you think it's a man? Haven't you ever heard of premenstrual tension? The rising incidence of
"Damn it, Elaine." She began chastising the young woman as soon as she hung up. "I can't be interrupted every ten minutes with a call that you could have handled perfectly well by yourself. What's the matter with you lat—" She stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing that every head in the room had snapped to attention at the sound of her voice.
There was a tiny millisecond of silence and nervous glances were exchanged as everyone reassured themselves they were not her intended target. A few wry, long-suffering smiles were traded. A few shoulders lifted in a "who knows?" sort of shrug. And then heads bent back over worktables, or lengths of fabric draped on long elegant bodies, and the hum of voices resumed as if nothing had happened. Except that Daphne realized she had nearly been shouting—again.
With a sigh, she propped both elbows on the drawing board and dropped her forehead into her cupped hands. "Damn," she swore softly.
She seemed to have been doing a lot of shouting in the past week. The volatile temper she had learned to control so well, losing it only when it would do her some good, seemed to be going off every twenty minutes. And it took embarrassingly little to light the fuse: models who were three minutes late for a fitting; the delivery boy from the deli downstairs bringing her tuna salad on white instead of whole wheat; Federal Express stopping by for a pickup five minutes later than they said they would; someone asking a simple question; the telephone. Especially the telephone. She kept hoping—and dreading—it was Adam.
It was all his fault, damn him, she thought savagely. Good manners, if nothing else, should have prompted him to call by now. It wasn't as if she was expecting declarations of love, or even an invitation to dinner the next time she was in town, but he could at least have called to make sure she had got back to New York all right. That would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. And even if he didn't want to talk to her, he could have written a polite little note saying that he had enjoyed seeing her again, couldn't he? He could have sent her flowers. Something. Anything. This deafening silence from the West Coast was making her feel like a one-night stand.
You didn't interrupt anything important.
A man could hardly get any clearer than that.
Oh, well, chalk one up to experience, she told herself. Blame it on human nature and the law of averages. Because, according to all the current experts, having a fling with one's ex-husband was almost boringly predictable. For some probably deep-seated masochistic reason, women seemed to do it all the time.
"Damn," she said again, more forcefully this time.
"Daphne?" Elaine's voice was hesitant. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I should have handled the Dragon Lady myself. I—"
"It's not your fault," Daphne said from behind her hands. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."
Elaine reached out, putting a tentative hand on Daphne's shoulder. "Hey, are you all right?"
Daphne sighed and lifted her head. "I'm fine," she said, a smile of apology on her lips. She reached up and patted the hand on her shoulder. "Just fine, really," she added, and then grimaced. "Except for the fact that I've been acting like a raging bitch, that is. I'm really sorry." She gave Elaine's hand a light, affectionate squeeze before she released it. "Forgive me?" she said, reaching for the violet drawing pencil as she spoke.
"Oh, don't worry about it. I understand completely." Elaine shook her head, setting the glossy brown hair to bobbing around her chin. "Men."
Daphne smiled, amused in spite of herself. Elaine thought men, individually or as a group, were the root of every woman's problems. "What makes you think it's a man? Haven't you ever heard of premenstrual tension? The rising incidence of
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